“Take a look,” Courtney said, sending me a link to yet another free craigslist posting. This time the items in question were a couple of couches. A large three seat and a love seat.
“AEIOFJEA!!!” I wittily replied. In layman’s terms, that simply meant “CALL HIM NOW!!!”

Courtney hastily made plans for a two couch pickup in Oak Park, Illinois, one of the Western Suburbs of Chicago. The plan seemed simple. Reserve a truck with Zipcar and go get the damn things. For some reason our minds, at least mine, envisioned simply showing up and the couches materializing themselves onto the pickup. Courtney and I would then ride all the way home singing “Camptown Races,” as she mentally designed a cover that would go over our new (old) free couches.

“Do you want me to drive?” Courtney asked, knowing I loathed city driving. The constant honking of horns and bad driving that takes place in Chicago drives me absolutely nuts. People don’t seem to realize that blowing on your horn doesn’t activate a hidden time traveling device within the vehicle, transporting you to your destination faster. They also don’t seem to understand the concept of of a stop sign. Here’s a hint, if they wanted you to simply tap on your breaks before accelerating like you’re on the Ottoban, that’s what the sign would say. Stop means STOP.

However, I did not let Courtney drive. Believe it or not, I do have some masculinity, and my masculinity said, “Man. Must. Drive. Truck.”

I would now like to preemptively apologize to the National Organization of Women for any remarks taken as sexist.

With that, I hopped in the brand-spanking new Tacoma, ready to feel out driving a truck, something I’ve never done before (except a handful of times during my summer of construction work in Northeast Ohio).

Although it didn’t feel like I was driving anything bigger than my Chevy Cavalier, I sure as Hell knew I was driving a piece of machinery, that given the opportunity, would piss oil all over my puny Chevy. I could also tell that I was overcompensating by driving in the middle of the road, out of fear I was going to take out some side mirrors on cars parked along the side of the road. While I wouldn’t ever advised driving in the middle of the road, it’s especially dangerous when driving down one of North-side Chicago’s many narrow side streets. Needless to say, we high-tailed it on over to one of the main roads where a truck feels at home.

The ride out to Oak Park was easy enough. Traffic got a little slow, even stand still at points, along the highway. But I quickly realized why drivers of over-sized vehicles don’t get nervous on the highway. Because no matter how environmentally friendly your Prius is, it’s not going to fuck with my Tacoma. I was starting to understand the testosterone fueled thrill Toby Keith must experience in every Ford truck commercial, pretty much the only instance I’ll ever say I felt like Toby Keith. When we reached Oak Park, I was a little sad (make that… not happy, for masculinity sake) that I my little  joy ride was over with. Sure we still had to drive the couches back, but I wasn’t going to kid myself. We weren’t driving back with loads of heavy machinery in the back. Oh no. We were driving back with couches, and nobody was going to fear my truck with the international symbol of growing a fat ass in the back. The thrill was rapidly departing, not to mention I wasn’t 100% confident we’d be able to fit the couches on the pickup. I imagined they’d be just a tad larger than the pictures off of craigslist.

The craigslist-er in question (Jamie? We’ll go with Jamie) was a very nice guy. Oddly enough, he was wearing a Cleveland Browns shirt upon our arrival. Yes, he was a fellow Clevelander (Medina to be exact). The universe works in mysterious ways.

Jamie pointed to a spot for us to grab temporarily while we moved the couches out of his apartment. I backed in and out, trying to get between the designated parking lines with little space to work with. Eventually, I was able to maneuver my way in with the left side on the line. I decided that was good enough, like a line drive off the third base line. FAIR BALL!

My fellow Ohioan lived on the third floor, and his place was very nice. Apparently the nice-ness was the wife’s job. Sounds about right!

The two couches we were there to move were waiting for us alongside the entrance to the living room, as his new couch had come the day before. While most who give a crap about furniture would probably admit that his new couches are nicer than the old, we definitely were lucky to get what we were getting for free. As I said later on in the night to some friends we had over for grilling, we definitely wouldn’t be selling these when we move again. Kudos to Jamie for giving two strangers good lounging furniture (so comfortable, I’m having a hard time writing this instead of napping), for our first apartment when he easily could have made a buck off of them.

What we didn’t pay in cash, we definitely paid for in manual labor. Getting the two couches down was no easy feat. Tight hallways, several doors to get through and a small elevator made moving the couches a workout in of itself. Not to mention Courtney, in her good natured attempts to help, kept picking up and putting down the couch cushions where we were trying to walk. It was as if she thought adding a comfy obstacle course would make the experience more enjoyable.

She meant well… She meant well…

The love seat wasn’t nearly the hassle the three seat was. The love seat was at least able to fit into the elevator, allowing us to only deal with the tight hallways and getting the damn thing outside. The sofa, however, wasn’t going out without a fight.

While trying to finagle the sofa through the shorter doorway, Jamie took out a light fixture. Glass shattered all over the sofa and floor.

“The words ‘watch the light’ were literally on the tip of my tongue,” Courtney said following the light’s demise.

Instead of getting pissed, Jamie thanked us… sort of. Apparently he and his wife (I think mostly his wife) hated the fixture, and his destroying it would be a good reason to get a replacement they actually liked.

Your welcome, Jamie’s wife!

After cleaning up the shards of glass, we pushed the couch to the elevator. Unfortunately, the sofa had absolutely no intention of leaving via the elevator. It was going to make us carry it through the winding stairway for all three floors.

Super.

Although the process of continually wedging the sofa through corners it wasn’t designed to fit through was quite strenuous, I learned something about moving. Each guy probably thinks the other guy is an idiot. Throughout my experiences of moving heavy loads, there’s always one point where the two movers aren’t on the same page, trying to do their own thing while articulating what it is they want the other person to do. This always comes out as a series of grunts with a few “No, this way!’ scattered in. As a guy, I know my strategy is always the most effective way. Just as I know there were moments I was thinking, “What the hell is he trying to do?” I’m sure Jamie thought “This guy didn’t pass shapes in kindergarten.”

To our credit, we did eventually find a relatively nice system to make our way through the stairway. We were relieved when we reached the bottom, knowing we only had Courtney’s help to make our way around. After getting the couch outside with the love seat, I ran around to the other side of the building where the truck was to bring it around for couch pickup.

Within the next few minutes, we were able to load the couches onto the pickup, wedging them together like two puzzle pieces that look like they go together but really don’t. Cushions were used to fill in any gaps to prevent the couches from doing any kind of sliding. This was particularly important since the hatch wouldn’t close. As I feared, the couches were a bit too large. Oh well, Courtney could just as easily sit in the back, hand through the window to hold onto the couches. Made perfect sense! All we had to do now was get back on the road. This required some Austin Powers-esque maneuvering on my part.

One of my pet peeves is when I’m trying to squeeze my way out of tight situations and some on looker is shouting, “WAY more room! You have tons of room! Like 5 feet!” like I’m some kind of idiot (a debate for another day). First of all, it doesn’t look like I have “a ton of room” when I’m in the front seat of a car. Second, I’d rather take my time than hitting the gas, followed by the brakes almost instantaneously. Jamie wasn’t too bad about this. He at least didn’t make me feel like an idiot, so I can’t complain too much. I’m just saying, a little toddler reassurance (“You’re doing a GREAT job!”) goes a long way!

After a few minutes of backing in and out, in and out, we were on our way.

Since the larger of the couches was hanging on the open hatch, we decided to limit ourselves to two streets all the way back, not going any faster than 30 mph (the speed limit, for those of you who were swerving around me). About half the time was spent traveling north on Oak and then east on Irving Park. When we left, it was getting pretty freaking close to 6pm, and we only had the car until 6:30pm. Courtney made a quick call to Zipcar in an attempt to extend our reservation.

No dice. Turns out we weren’t the only folks moving stuff on the first of the month.

No worries, parents. We didn’t hit the gas in an attempt to beat the clock and avoid Zipcar’s $50 late fee. We went nice and slow, like you would’ve wanted.

At first it seemed rather obvious that we wouldn’t beat the clock. But after turning onto Irving Park, we could see our building (towering 55 floors high), and it stood there like some sort of hope that we would make it on time. We remained optimistic, but cautious. As time was winding down, sweat beading down our faces, because the AC gives me a headache and I’d rather sweat it out with the windows rolled down, Courtney called Zipcar to tell them we might make it on time, if everything went smoothly. Then the red lights started happening.

Block after block after block, it seemed like we were getting there just in time for the red light.

“If you go the speed limit, you’re never supposed to hit a red light,” Courtney said. “I didn’t believe it until I tried it out.”

I’m definitely not calling her a liar, but the few times we did get a green light without stopping completely was cause to celebrate. It was as if some pissed of God was watching over us, making us think we’d get away wihtout having to pay the fine, only to miss the window barely.

Free couches, my ass.

As expected, we missed our drop off time. Blame it on Jamie for not telling us it’d be a hassle to get the couches out, blame it on not having a strategy for how we’d get them into our apartment, or blame it on my unwillingness to take the freeway on the way back. Either way, we ended up with a couple of nice, relatively free couches.

Although I was admittedly a bit perturbed over the fine we’d have to split, things could definitely be worse. Because instead of some depressing, meaningless life, I had a grill, friends, and most importantly, beer to attend to. The perfect trifecta for an otherwise imperfect start to a new home, which in my convoluted mind, makes it that much more perfect.

Joe Baur is the writer/creator of CHOSA Film, Mildly Relevant News, and co-creator of Throw!Kick!Punch!

You can follow Joe B at twitter.com/joebaur42

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This past Thursday was the kind of hot and humid day that makes even the most senior of citizens wish they never moved to Florida. Except I wasn’t in Florida, I was in Chicago. So I can only imagine the steaming puddle of sweat that was going on down in Florida.

In any event, I’m the kind of guy who finds it necessary to at least spend some time outside, regardless of how warm or cold it is out. Thursday was no different, as Courtney and I decided to go on a walk. That walk, however, ended up being brief due to the attacking sun, not to mention our stomach’s were demanding nourishment. Thankfully, Mista was nearby to offer us a break from both the heat and our increasingly grumpy stomachs.

Located at 2931 North Broadway in the East Lakeview neighborhood of Chicago, Mista prides itself on its organic selection (no pesky pesticides!), offering customers a healthy variety of pizza, gourmet salads, wraps, wraps, and dessert.

As per usual, Courtney was in charge of making our selection, due to my crippling inability to make a decision when it comes to food (I. Want. It. All.). Florentine pizza was her (our) choice, described as a mix of sauce, organic baby spinach, seasoned ricotta, organic mushrooms, roasted organic garlic, and fresh mozzarella. Yes, they really do hammer the organic theme, which might prove frightening to someone who is quite alright with the delicacies offered at the typical fast food eatery, but to a couple who prides themselves in their attempt to eat healthy, the wave of organic on top of organic with some more organic was welcomed.

Admittedly, the look of the pizza threw me off a bit for no better reason than it didn’t look like your typical Papa John’s pizza. Perhaps it was because it actually looked healthy, and “healthy looking pizza” isn’t something I come across too often. My slightly confused perceptions were quickly outweighed by my stomach, so we dove right in… with our forks. The globs of mozzarella on top of the pizza slid off far too easily to warrant a typical hand holding style of pizza eating, but I really could care less, because the pizza was freakin’ delicious.

As quickly as it arrived, it was gone, which – to be fair – is fairly typical of my eating habits. A few notes before I head out, go with the large size over the regular if two of you are sharing one pizza and one of you is a male. Even if the regular does manage to fill you up, you’ll thank me for going with the large.

Joe Baur is the writer/creator of CHOSA Film, Mildly Relevant News, and co-creator of Throw!Kick!Punch!

You can follow Joe B at twitter.com/joebaur42

Become a fan of Mildly Relevant Thoughts & Throw!Kick!Punch!

Again! It happened again! Not a full day since being called the n-word while riding my bike and almost getting taken out by a car door, I got yelled at again.

While riding over to Courtney’s for dinner last night, I came to a mildly crowded intersection (Belmont & Seminary). I waited patiently for traffic to become sparse before making my way across. As I planned, cars stop coming and I made my way across. A pedestrian across the way starts crossing in front of me. This, as fellow riders can attest to, is always an awkward situation. Do we go behind or in front? Often I’ve had pedestrians stop dead in their tracks as if I was an oncoming beast. With that in mind, I took a large loop around the man, swinging in front of him. A few seconds later he calls out, “Nice job, asshole!’

What!? Again!?

Once again, I tried to reason.

“I went around you!” I shouted back. Instead of having a loud debate like the day before, I decided to just keep on moving.

Mind you that while  I was waiting to cross, I was at a complete stop. So hardly any speed could have been generated between the north side of the intersection and the south side of the intersection. There was no danger on either end. I’ve come up with two conclusions.

1.) The guy was yelling to someone else.
2.) I completely made it up in my crazy mind.
3.) The guy was insane, because I’m pretty sure he was wearing a Starter Jacket and the only people who wear those are crazy drifters and me when I was in third grade.

I like to think option three is the correct answer, because not only does this exonerate me from being crazy, but it makes me chuckle.

Joe Baur is the writer/creator of ChicagoNow: Mildly Relevant Thoughts and co-creator of Throw!Kick!Punch!

You can follow Joe B at twitter.com/joebaur42

Become a fan of Mildly Relevant Thoughts & Throw!Kick!Punch!.

A very unpleasant, humid fog has blanketed Chicago, but that isn’t stopping folks from celebrating St. Patrick’s Day.

About an hour ago I was at Courtney’s, waiting for her Mom in town from New Jersey, to get back to the apartment in order to plan the day’s festivities. We decided on Mystic Celt, an Irish bar/restaurant that will be playing Irish music all day, so I threw on my dirty clothes and hopped on my bike. I thought to myself while riding, “I should probably avoid Clark St. and take the side roads.” For those of you who don’t know, Clark St. is the busiest street in Northern Chicago (Wrigleyville, Lakeview, etc.). On a day where drunken fools will be scattered about, it was a likely bet that said fools would be prancing around. Instead of running into a drunken fool, however, I encountered a fool in general.

Pedaling along Clark, all was well until I reached the Aldine/School area when a car door suddenly sprang open, almost hitting me. With my cat like reflects, I swerved out of the way. After regaining control of my bike, I stopped and turned around. There was a guy getting out of his car, seemingly unconcerned with the fact that I almost took out his door.

“Watch where you’re going!” I shouted like some extra on a film set in New York City.
“What?”
“You almost hit me with your door!”

I’m a stereotypical Ohioan. I cherish politeness. In fact, earlier in the day I more or less let a guy know he was being an ass when Panera ran out of bagels this morning. “You guys really aren’t prepare,” he chided the woman at the counter, as if she was personally and pleasurably keeping him away from bagel nourishment. Kindness pays off, because due to defending her and our general politeness, she gave us two free cookies. SCORE! Now back to the man on the street who almost checked me with his car door.

Instead of granting me an apology or voicing even the slightest bit of concerned, this gentleman decided on a very different path.

“Shut the fuck up, nigger, or I’ll beat yo’ ass!” he shouted.
“What?” I replied, confused more than a puppy who can’t find their toy.
“Come here, nigger, and I’ll beat yo’ ass!”
“I’m white!” I replied, later kicking myself for, in a way, insinuating that it would have been okay to yell that even if I were black. Obviously I wasn’t, but this guy didn’t look like he had his GED, so I doubt he comprehended much more than the present.

After a few more hopeless exchanges, I gave up and pedaled away. Part of me was upset, because by simply going away this guy reaffirms that his profanity tirades work when in reality people like him aren’t worth anyone’s time.

As I continued riding home, I started to over think things as I always do.

Whenever I run across unfortunate characters, especially rude ones, I think about how THAT person used to be a child who enjoyed running around in the yard. They used to be full of laughter and joy. Where in God’s name do they become THAT person, I always wonder to myself. When did the guy who almost hit me today go from an adorable little kid to a guy yelling the n-word to someone they almost seriously injured?

Yes, I know assholes exist. I’m not some naive kid who craps rainbows and unicorns. But it’s just something I’ve never met head on. Believe it or not, I’ve never been called a “nigger,” whilst my ass was being threatened. The best example I can come up with is war. We all hate it and wish it would go away, but it doesn’t really affect any of us directly, unless you have a loved one involved. The same goes for people like that guy. I knew he existed, but never met him head on.

I love this country, this planet and humanity in general. So to actually meet a cancer of the country/planet/humanity that I cherish dearly, really pissed me off.

If only he’d go back to being a kid. The world would be much better off, not to mention, more adorable.

Joe Baur is the writer/creator of ChicagoNow: Mildly Relevant Thoughts and co-creator of Throw!Kick!Punch!

You can follow Joe B at twitter.com/joebaur42

Become a fan of Mildly Relevant Thoughts & Throw!Kick!Punch!.

This morning Courtney and I went to Einsteins on Southport for a bagel and coffee before starting our day. On our table was a copy of RedEye with the above image on the cover.

460 people were slain in 2009 in Chicago.

Many people who grew up in the suburbs of Chicago and moved to the North-Side (the definition of gentrification) don’t realize the problem they have in their city. I get crap for being from Cleveland, yet they don’t realize it’s almost a war zone outside of their precious 2 mile radius. Many of these people have probably also overlooked the news from several months ago that the Supreme Court will be taking a brand spankin’ new gun case that will surely set the standard for new gun laws. Basically, someone is challenging owning a gun in the city, because of the violence all around him. Even better for the pro-gun folks, the guy is an elderly black man. Now there’s a face they’ve never been able to slap onto their literature.

Folks are arguing that this man has the right to defend himself in his bad neighborhood. By taking away his gun, we’re leaving him defenseless amidst the thugs who carry such weapons. My guess, however, is that Chicago has been profoundly sucking in the area of enforcing said laws in these area. It’s actually not so much a guess, since apparently over 400 people were slain last year.

People can argue all they want that guns are simply for protection and a form of self-defense. But does anyone really think that every last one of those 460 people died over self-defense? I wouldn’t be surprised if most of these gun deaths were over “my dick’s bigger than your dick” type of arguments. That doesn’t even include innocent bystanders.

The scary reality is that we need to outlaw guns in these dangerous areas and deal with the fact that SOME criminals will obtain guns illegally. I refuse to believe, however, that every single criminal who currently has a gun would be able to get one illegally if such a ban took place. Chicago then needs to step up enforcement in these areas to show the criminals that they can get a gun illegally, but there will be a cop right behind them. Eventually they’ll find whomever is supplying the guns illegally, because let’s face it – these people aren’t the brightest bulbs on the street.

Of course there are those who will simply shake their head over any decision to increase gun regulations, claiming it’s a liberal-Marxist-Neo-Nazi plot to take away our freedoms, insisting that guns don’t kill people. If that’s true, then go ahead and ask the people who died because of gun violence last year exactly how free they feel. Go ahead and ask people who live in areas plagued with gun violence just how free they feel. Or, better yet, you can ask the families of the victims if they believe guns don’t kill people.

It’s weird, because it seems to me that most pro-gun folks grew up and live in suburbia, far away from gun violence. Perhaps they should spend a few months in the roughest areas of Chicago and see if they still think everyone should have a right to a gun. Might I suggest where the Fenger incident took place? Methinks they’d change their mind faster than they can crap themselves out of fear.

Previously, I wrote about a particular Megabus adventure to Minneapolis involving a certain bus driver who called himself “Mr.Quincy.” Almost immediately after posting, another story was brewing. Now that I have returned from a FREE January trip to Minneapolis, I shall update the masses on my Megabus excursion.

Soon after I posted the Mr. Quincy piece, Megabus started following me on twitter and direct messaged me. Basically they said they were sorry to hear I had a bad experience and would see that the message I sent to customer service received a response. So whereas I previously would have simply forgotten about the letter Courtney and I wrote to Megabus’ customer service, I was now determined to make sure I received an answer.

A week or so went by and I hadn’t received a response, so I began pestering the twitter account for Megabus. They assured me I’d receive a response soon via email. In the meantime, I decided to ask when Jan. 8th tickets would go on sale (this was mid-November), because Courtney and I were planning to back to Minneapolis to see Chaplin’s Gold Rush performed by the Minnesota Orchestra. The twit-head told me to check back in December, telling me that the $1 they advertise are not mythical. I took them at their word. Silly me.

Checking back for whatever reason in late November, I noticed the tickets had gone on sale. Pissed off consumer took over. I immediately wrote a stern tweet only to be given an apology. An apology for $60 round trip wasn’t good enough after I felt lied to, or so I said.

Time goes by, still no response about the original letter that started this whole crap-box, and I’m starting to forget about my original complaint. But then… I see an interesting tweet from Megabus. They started giving away 100,000 seats FOR FREE starting in January going into mid-March. Immediately I took advantage of this awesome deal by getting tickets for our planned trip to Cleveland in February for my dad’s birthday. After I let that pleasant surprise soak in, I turned back into angry consumer-man as miss customer service FINALLY wrote to me.

Basically the news was that they’re sorry I was upset and took so long to get back to me and would offer me a free ticket for a future trip.

While I admit that I made more of the situation (this whole story is about that) than was necessary, I still maintain that my logic was correct. First of all, why would I want a free ticket to something that I felt was a crappy service? It’s like going to a gun show, getting shot by accident and being given a ticket to another one, only slightly more frustrating. Instead, I lobbied to get our Minneapolis tickets, the ones we were “lied” to about and paid $60 for instead of $1 a piece, for free.

At this point, I had them where I wanted them. I’m sure I’m not the only one who has been a pissed-off-customer that knew if they kept pushing, they’d get something for free. I knew that if I kept pushing, Megabus would have to refund my trip. Again, my logic was correct, but I’m sure Megabus was hoping I’d simply be happy to get a free ticket and think about more important things in life than saving an extra $60.

NOPE!

Onward I pushed. Several angry emails were sent to this poor customer service agent, whom I now can apologize to, and still nothing was resolved. Still, I knew free tickets were in reach. And as someone who shares an attic in order to pay minimal rent, saving $60 is pretty freaking awesome. I was determined! Soon I was threatening to expose Megabus’ illogical ways to my “readers.” Yes, I threatened to turn my readers against Megabus. Whether or not this had an affect with the rep, I don’t know, but I never did tell them that I have about as many readers as any other aspiring writer with their own website. (Hi Mom… Hi girlfriend).

To be fair, as I begin to sound more and more like a greedy little bastard, my logic made sense! First, my letter took a ridiculous amount of time to garner a response, then I was told the wrong date to purchase tickets (resulting in a much higher payment) and now Megabus was GIVING AWAY seats for a Minneapolis trip that I had already paid $60 to. Personally, I was shocked they didn’t just give me the Minneapolis trip for free without the fight. Granted I knew I’d win, but they were giving the seats away anyway… Why not get rid of disgruntled customer by doing the same for him? Instead, they kept me around to ruin their days for a little longer, unless they enjoyed bitching about me to friends, which I’m sure they must’ve. Lord knows I would have if a douchebag like me complained endlessly about something as unimportant as bus tickets.

After another few weeks without a response from either Megabus’ twitter account or the customer service rep, I received an email. Now late December, Megabus had finally decided to give me the Minneapolis seats for free “as a gesture of goodwill.” While it might have been a legitimate “gesture of goodwill,” methinks it made them feel better about giving me the tickets for free, because instead of simply giving into my desires, it was now their decision.

Whatever. I got me some free tickets and saved $60!

I decided to delay reporting this exciting news until after the trip, even though I don’t think they could have actually done anything.

Now that we’re through with this experience, I’d like to thank Megabus for playing and giving us the free trip. Oh, and thanks for putting up with me. I hope the brain damage you undoubtedly received from slamming your head against the wall after our encounters was minimal.

What I found particularly amusing, however, was that if their little twit-head with the twitter account never contacted me, I more than likely would have forgotten about my original customer complaint. Since they did contact me, I made sure to see it through. A big whoops on their part.

I wish I could now report that Megabus is actually great and that I was just being a little prick (I was), but I can’t. When I first started using them over five years ago, hardly anyone used it and rides seemed to be a lot smoother. Now it seems like Megabus almost oversells every trip. It’s not an outdoor concert, Megabus. It’s a bus. You can’t oversell!

One recent trip had a woman carrying a massive bag onto the bus, because the driver didn’t pack very well and there wasn’t anymore space. She then put her bag on the two open seats behind the bus driver, putting his bag on the floor. He, of course, flipped out on the woman. “You have a lot of nerve!” and put her bag elsewhere. This was the second instance we’ve seen a Megabus driver get touchy about someone sitting behind them. THEY’RE OPEN SEATS! PEOPLE NEED TO SIT! Other riders on the bus confirmed that they’ve seen drivers similarly throw a fit over someone sitting behind them.

On our return to Chicago from Cleveland, we ended up waiting for about an hour after the bus was supposed to arrive before it finally did. Everyone then ran outside for the bus, waiting as those who were arriving to Cleveland got off the bus and got their bags. THEN the bus driver informed us he’d have to leave to pick up the driver for our trip from his hotel and would be right back. At this point, Courtney was concerned over her feet literally turning to blocks of ice. The driver took his sweet time, cleaning up the bus and emptying trash. Because THAT couldn’t have been done after letting freezing passengers on. Finally, after the trash was thrown out, he decided to let us on and would drive us to the hotel and they’d switch drivers then. Logic finally won in the end.

Last, but not least, on our recent Minneapolis trip, the bus driver AGAIN got lost. The original Mr. Quincy story involved a bus driver asking passengers where to go (and oh, so much more) and it was happening all over again! This was admittedly far more tame than the previous encounter, but one has to wonder why Megabus doesn’t equip their drivers with directions OR shell out the $100 to get them a freaking GPS. Instead, passengers are forced to yell at the driver, “here…HERE… STOP THE BUS!” as they drive past the bus stop, murmuring in confusion, “Is this it? Huh? Here?”

Suffice it to say, Courtney and I will be driving our car back from Cleveland in February, hopefully ending our Megabus excursions.

Per tradition, Courtney and I went to Mickey’s (Mickey’s Dawg Pound on Sundays) for the Browns/Chiefs game. As expected, the crowd was sparse. I couldn’t really blame people for not coming to see a then 2-11 team play a 3-10 team. One could probably find more excitement on C-Span than in a typical Browns game, but the lack of Browns fans coming out allowed douchebags to take over instead.

At some point during the second quarter, a group of about four guys came in, dressed like it was a Saturday night. Now I know NOTHING about fashion, so I generally get a bad vibe from guys who wear things I don’t recognize (i.e. non-team apparel shirts), especially those who wear those trendy, ripped jeans despite cold temperatures. It’s as if they’re saying “I’m so hot, December can’t cool me down,” in the most frustrating way possible. Last but not least, I don’t get why someone would wear a hat that isn’t affiliated with a team, a city OR isn’t funny. These guys were wearing hats that looked like they belonged on an Abercrombie mannequin. Meanwhile, we’re sitting behind them decked out in Browns apparel, like we’re supposed to be, dammit!

One guy was the epitome of all things I loathe about guys. He was the kind of a guy who puts his arm around a girl’s waist whenever they come by, even if it’s for a two sentence chat. Like a snake, it works his way around the hip and hugs them closer. The girls (waitresses at the bar) were trapped. They seemed to know them, but it doesn’t make it any less lame. Why so grabby? Would he do that to one of his guy friends? Probably not.

Then, as any sane douchebag would do on a Sunday afternoon, they ordered shots. Beer I get… but shots? This was a football bar! You drink BEER.

Our favorite was probably the guy who was sitting back in his stool, arm hanging over the back of the chair as if to say, “Damn, I’m fly,” whilst sporting studs in his ears (I think they’re called studs), and a fake tan. All the while, his lips were pursed together as if he just sucked on 20 lemons, but in reality it was probably, again, because he was thinking, “Damn, I’m fly!”

Football bars should start employing bouncers for Sundays. No team apparel? Then go home and change, or hope that Abercrombie fields a football team someday.

I’ve discussed my affinity for all things Christmas before. Whether it’s drinking games, singing Christmas carols obnoxiously early or making up fake-Christmas related interviews, I love it all! On the same hand, however, Christmas comes with something not-so holly and jolly.

Bad weather.

Earlier in the week we were greeted with our first snow. It was, as I commented to Courtney, quite beautiful.

“Stay like this,” I thought to myself. “Temperature, amount of snow, everything.” Unlike the pansies who flee the Midwest for the South, I enjoy the change of seasons. But I do, like any sane person, have my limits. I absolutely LOATHE the rain/snow mixture that almost always comes after a night of clean snow. “Clean snow” being snow that isn’t that slushy means that makes you want to vomit before singing a Christmas carol.

That’s what happened last night.

I had scheduled filming for a new short-comedy bit for around 6:15pm. The house where we were going to be filming is about a 15 minute walk. No big deal, normally. Unfortunately, it was pouring that rain/snow mixture as soon as I left my place. It had been forever since we filmed a comedy short, though, so I was determined to get there.

As I was walking, though, I noticed something a bit different about me. I wasn’t singing, whistling, humming or even THINKING about a Christmas carol! Totally unlike me during this time of year. For whatever reason, I then flashed back to an instance where I was singing “Let It Snow” with Courtney. Of course at the time of said singing the weather wasn’t “frightful.” In fact, one might say it was quite delightful! (Sorry, that was a little lame).

I then came to the conclusion that it almost never actually snows when one sings “Let It Snow.” Perhaps that’s because when you sing it, you think it’s a good idea for the weather to bring some snow. Then when it actually does, you regret it.

I fear I might have brought on this crap-tastic weather, since I have (on more than one occasion) belted out some off-key versions of Let It Snow. Or it could’ve been because I tempted the weather Gods with my creative parody version.

Oh the weather outside ain’t frightful,
And m’lady is so delightful,
And since we’ve got places to go,
There isn’t snow! There isn’t snow! There isn’t snow!

Oops…

My brother and sister-in-law had mentioned that Mystic Celt is a great place for brunch. One thing you must all know about me is that I LOVE breakfast. I love breakfast and all things pertaining to breakfast. I’ve even considered changing it to my religion status on facebook, because “Joedaism” just seems a bit vain, and vanity is not supported by Joedaism.

I digress.

This past Sunday Courtney and I went and had a great brunch. It was simple and that’s all I needed. However, I do have a suggestion for the folks over at Mystic Celt.

You know how schools with a history of violence put in metal detectors to deter bringing violent materials? Well Mystic Celt should put one in a douchebag-detector.

After eating, Courtney and I were enjoy sitting by the window. She was working and I was trying to make space for more food. Meanwhile, two guys sit at the table next to us. It was a Sunday afternoon at a bar, so football apparel as expected. One of these guys, however, decided to go with the sport jacket over a tee shirt and jeans.

I know NOTHING about fashion, but I do know that people who wear a sport coat over a tee shirt with jeans at a football Sunday brunch irritate me. As if that wasn’t enough, this guy turned out to be an incredible douchebag. I give you examples below (because Courtney kept notes whenever something especially douchetastic happened).

The waitress brings out a caraffe and the guy breaks out into laughter, calling it a giraffe. OK?

Both, but the sport jacket guy in particular, were badly trying to hit on this poor waitress. Just your standard douche move, however.

The one that really got us was sport jacket guy’s grand master plan. HE was going to become Chicago’s playboy, because he’s such a social lite (insert loud remarks of DUDE! wherever you want). His buddy was going to be a “ladies underwear mogul.” I kid you not. For a good thirty minutes he would shout “Dan McMahon! Chicago playboy and his buddy the ladies underwear mogul!” Because apparently AWESOME guys make ladies underwear…?

They then, as one would imagine, debated who would be in their entourage, throwing out a random f-bomb for obnoxious flavor.

Look out, Chicago! Dan McMahon, Chicago socialite/playboy is on the fucking prowl with his AWESOME entourage, featuring the ladies underwear mogul, dude, awesome, guy!

Last night I went to my first Chicago Blackhawks game with Courtney to see them play my Columbus Blue Jackets. Not only were we treated with some great hockey, but we also were introduced to the Chicago Blackhawks’ Ice Crew!

For those of you who don’t know, the Ice Crew is comprised of the fine ladies above. Essentially whenever there was a long enough break in the action, they’d send these scantily clad ladies out onto the ice with a shovel. For the most part they’d stand around looking pretty while the guys, bundled up, did most of the work. I felt bad for any women in the stands trying to get by without showing off boobs and stomach.

It was as if someone in the Blackhawks organization thought to themselves, “Why don’t we just toss some hot chicks on the ice every now and again?” or better yet, “You know what will get fans coming back to games? If we dress some girls up in revealing Blackhawks apparel. BRILLIANT!” and then he high-fived himself. Guys with lonely erections everywhere applauded the decision.

“Those girls are awfully tan for Chicago in the winter,” Courtney commented. I couldn’t agree more.

Way to exploit women, Blackhawks! How about next time you have two of them makeout. Maybe they can even cop a feel. Think about it…

Give the Chicago Blackhawks’ Game Operations team a high-five here!